


what's written in the stars.

by veravia



Category: Mass Effect - All Media Types, Mass Effect 2 - Fandom, Mass Effect Trilogy
Genre: Character Death, Comfort, Eventual Relationships, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Friends to Lovers, Mass Effect 2, Mass Effect 3, Mutual Pining, Semi-Canon Compliant, Spacer (Mass Effect), and he's in love wowie, covers the plot of both games, garrus is just as funny as he deserves to be, little bit of twisting, shepard hates working for cerberus
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-27
Updated: 2020-12-27
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:42:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,468
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28267836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/veravia/pseuds/veravia
Summary: One moment she was accepting her death—assuring herself that she had done enough, that the world was safe, or at least safe enough, as she heaved for her final breaths of air. Then, she was awake again, alive again—just with more scars and the absence of the world she'd spent so long building for herself.In which Shepard finds a home in Garrus, and Garrus finds someone he's truly afraid to lose.
Relationships: Female Shepard & Garrus Vakarian, Female Shepard/Garrus Vakarian, Shepard/Garrus Vakarian
Kudos: 11





	what's written in the stars.

**Author's Note:**

> hi!! i hope you enjoy this little fic of mine! it's my first time writing for garrus and i'm super excited to get this out there thank you for reading :)

Shepard knew from a young age that she would die young.

A certain sadness came with growing up in the dead of space. Going from station to station and ship to ship allowed her to see more of the galaxy in her infancy than most get to see in a lifetime—and she loved it.

She found her childish happiness in the sounds of empty space and the humming of engines before she could express it. Chubby toddler legs carried her across crew decks and bridges, artless laughter trailing close behind.

A comfort had been formed in the emptiness of space—a comfort in the alliance, a comfort in the ships, and, in some strange way, a comfort in the lifestyle of the military tasked with protecting the galaxy.

However, this attachment wasn't always understood, no matter echoed by the crew on the ships Shepard inhabited. Many looked down on her clumsy footsteps with somber expressions and sad eyes. They knew what she didn't—that a warship was no place for a child. That the running along bridges should've been reserved for ones along overgrown fields where her cheeks were reddened by the afternoon sun. That when she was tucked into bed at night she should've been lulled to sleep by the sounds of the night, rather than the humming of Alliance vessels.

It was no surprise to anyone when she joined the Alliance herself the moment she could—and even more so, that she rose through the ranks as quickly she did. Shepard was a powerful soldier, a strong leader, and according to Alliance notes, her passion would carry her far.

But that all came to a halt.

One moment, she was on the fast track to becoming one of the strongest members of the Alliance. She was the first human spectre, the leader of an elite squad, defeater of Saren—but in the end, floating through empty space while her lungs starved for the relief of oxygen, none of that mattered.

Or at least that's what everyone assumed.

Two years went by with the galaxy scrubbed of its beloved Commander. People mourned, grieved, moved on. There was always some new threat or pressing issue to work through, so while 'Commander Shepard' was nothing less than a household name, people left her in the back of their memory, the way they do with all things in due time.

But Shepard, thanks to the universe’s persistent obdurateness, was pulled from space and left blinking away eternal rest while two Cerberus agents loomed above her.

One moment she was accepting her death—assuring herself that she had done enough, that the world was safe, or at least safe _enough,_ as she heaved for her final breaths of air. Then, she was awake again, _alive_ again—just with more scars and the absence of the world she'd spent so long building for herself.

Shepard decided early on that she didn't like working for Cerberus (and she was almost positive the rest of the galaxy didn't either), but when they pulled her from the grave and stuck a gun in her hand, she realized she didn't have much of a choice.

Seeing The Normandy back together, or at least looking as if it were, with Joker in the Captain's chair was the only thing about the situation that felt real. Everything else was put back together—placed in such a way that she _shouldn't_ have seen the difference—but oh, how she did.

The little things—the things that made The Normandy, _The Normandy,_ were gone, replaced with empty counters and remnants of where her crewmates once stayed. The sound of the engines, something she could so vividly hear when she put her mind to it, was different. It was quieter—it sputtered less and didn't hum when the external shields were turned on. 

Did the SR-2 even _have_ external shields?

It was still a ship, _her_ ship, but Cerberus had touched it—leaving the evidence of their presence in every room. The new Normandy, much like the new Shepard, was treated too delicately for her liking.

People started to stay on their toes around her, and though she could only assume it was because of the sudden affiliation with a terrorist organization, she figured the whole "woman put back together" campaign wasn't helping either.

It wasn't until Shepard stepped foot on _Omega_ of all places that something began to feel right again. At first, she assumed it was because _everyone_ there was damaged in some sense. Nothing on Omega was quite right, and neither was _she—_ so for some sickening reason, maybe that seemed comforting. But she was soon to realize that the inhabitants of the planet weren't quite what drew her to it; it was their protector. The fabled " _Archangel"_ of all people.

She thought the name was funny.

It wasn't anything particular about it, more so that her self-proclaimed " _Favorite Turian_ " had picked it. Seeing Garrus was, in some sense, soothing. He looked tired, or at least as tired as a Turian could look, and she made sure she told him that.

He, in an ever-so in character manner, chuckled at her, nudging the butt of his rifle into her ribs and quickly spitting a "y’know, Shepard, you don't look so great yourself" in reply.

Garrus, who she soon decided would be added to her newly-created mental checklist of real-and-not-real, was undeniably real. So much so, in fact, that he was stuck taking a rocket barely ten minutes after they'd reunited. Ten fucking minutes.

If she wasn't so busy trying to remember her Alliance training in Turian first aid (that, may she note, she rarely paid attention to) while plasma sunk into the creases of her fingers, she would've killed him right there, all by herself.

Thankfully, Garrus not only lived to tell the story but recovered quickly enough that he was joking about it the next week in an attempt to win over the Cerberus crew.

Corny jokes and newly-formed scars were a staple of Garrus, one that she was undeniably drawn to at that.

And so, she found herself in the main battery more often than she probably should have. She decided that if anyone were to ask it was because she was making sure Garrus wasn't pushing himself too hard so soon after his injury. No one asked.

Truthfully, chin balanced on her elbows, as she pretended to study one of the consoles in the corner of the room, Shepard felt the most normal she had in weeks—months if you count the time spent rolling around in the bed of a Cerberus lab.

"If you wanted to pretend you were doing some work you could at least move from time to time." It's taken a full week for Garrus to break the silence of the room. A full week before the little harmony Shepard had garnered for herself was taken away once again.

"You can just sit here, you know. Take a break every once and a while." Garrus barely looks up from his console, following the keys as the words left his mouth. "You don't have to pretend to be working all the time."

Shepard sighs, rubbing her eyes with the base of her palms in defeat.

"I know," the words stumble from her mouth and even she wasn't quite sure where she was going with this. "It's just that the Collectors _—"_

 _"_ Hey." He holds his hand in the air, stopping her in her tracks. "I said take a _break,_ Shepard. Give yourself a few minutes without the possibility of the Collector invasion... and maybe our inevitable deaths while you're at it."

"Thanks, Garrus," she stifled a chuckle. "Real comforting."

He laughed out a shrug in reply and warm silence began to swarm the room once again. It was rare, from that point out, that much would be exchanged between them at all.

Garrus, more often than not, followed Shepard on ground missions, and when the mission called for a conversation, they talked about it. When it didn't, they didn't. Most of their interactions only necessitated simple understanding, and that’d always came easy to them. With or without words.

So when the majority of the time spent in the main battery was in comfortable silence, it was no surprise to either of them. It was easy, just as it had always been, and for a while, both of them seemed okay with just that.

Or, at least for a little while. 

Shepard got herself hurt. It was nothing big, really. She'd been in the wrong place at the wrong time and suddenly the sun of Haestrom taking out her shields was a little more worrying than any of them had anticipated.

A geth trooper had shot straight through her shields (or sudden lack thereof) and under her armor, leaving a burn the size of Garrus’ fist along her arm.

Shepard, as always, took the event in stride, but he, on the other hand, didn't like it one bit. Some medigel was enough to carry her through the rest of the mission and Tali was able to help repair her shields for the way out, but that night, under the hum of the battery, Garrus found himself restless because of it. 

It was the first time in months he'd spent the evening alone. Even if the majority of their interaction was through silent gestures, having Shepard there was a welcomed comfort _—_ and one that he found himself missing desperately in its absence.

He considered wandering his way over to the medbay. He knew she'd be alright, God only knew she'd gone through worse, but he'd found himself uncharacteristically lonely. So much so that it was no surprise when he resorted to complaining to Chakwas that his scars had developed some sort of burn and he needed medigel immediately.

The doctor, in her wisdom, rolled her eyes at the Turian, but listened to him nonetheless (though she'd opted not to waste any supplies, instead opting to give him an icepack of all things) and gestured for him to sit down next to the Commander. _Real inconspicuous._

Shepard had been sitting there for the last hour, the sleeve of her fatigues rolled just above her elbow as she hovered over her arm with her omnitool.

"The scars 'burn', huh?" Garrus nearly chokes. He'd been caught.

He decides to nod in reply, pressing the icepack to the side of his cheek in a rather pathetic manner, barely holding it in his hand at all.

"You sure you didn't just miss me too much?" Oh, he was so fucked.

"Commander... _Shepard_ , how dare you think so lowly of me! Taking up the good doctor's time like that? I would never."

"Oh no, no you simply couldn't. That would be an injustice."

"Exactly. And you know how much Archangel hates injustice."

They both laughed _—_ the hearty kind that puts your mind at ease _—_ and neither of them opted to move from the medical bay for a while, leaving Chakwas to decide that she would _never_ be playing matchmaker again.

  
  


They began to talk more after that. The silence, though a kind one, had been replaced by frequent conversation, even if it was seemingly unimportant. Garrus and Shepard alike had never been ones for small talk, but it never really seemed too small between the two of them.

Shepard liked to talk of growing up. Garrus couldn't help but notice the glint in her eye as she spoke of her childhood, even in its roughest points. He wasn't nearly as open with the details of his family, though it wasn’t so much that he didn't want to be and more that he simply couldn't.

He still talked to his family on Palavan when he could (that mostly being his father and his sister) but at this point in his life, his conversations with them were mostly uneventful. What was he to say, really?

" _Hey Dad, me again. I got shot by some Geth today, overall not too bad."_

He decided early into this war that the violent parts of his life were better kept a secret.

(Besides, a rogue spectre? He knows how his father would feel about _that_ one).

Instead, Garrus liked to talk about work, even when it wasn't _quite_ work. He kept up with his demand to not discuss the Collectors, but old war stories had always been his favorite, even if Shepard had been there for most of them anyway.

She really didn't mind it, promptly deciding that she could hear them over and over and still carry the same interest. Shepard, though growing increasingly more comfortable in her crew, had found an undeniable solace in her time spent with the Turian.

They'd known each other a long time (especially long if you count the time she was dead) but this time around there was something different between them. When he first arrived on the SR-2 he was all she had, and no matter the comfort she’d built up from her new crew, that didn't seem to go away. Those nights in the battery—those were irreplicable. As was her sense of trust in him.

Even as she could feel his crosshairs trained on the back of her head.

The conversation came about rather quickly one night. She’d stayed in the main battery longer than usual. She filled the air with soft yawns and their words began to meld with the humming of the battery itself.

"I received some information on Sidonis." He said it rather bluntly, simply letting the air around them swallow the information.

"The guy who got your squad killed?" Shepard was rubbing the sleep out of her eyes, her hip resting on the console next to her.

Garrus nodded and in response she raised a brow at him, running her tongue across her teeth.

"Are you asking me to help you go after him?"

"I couldn't expect you to-"

"I'll do it."

He was stunned, though he wasn't quite sure why. He knew, deep down, that Shepard was willing to do anything for her crew—willing to do anything for him.

"If you want the bastard dead, I say why not do it?"

"You would help me with something like this?" He questioned.

"Of course," she replied, and that was it.

Or at least so they thought, until Shepard was standing in front of Sidonis, attempting any and all ways to get Garrus to stand down.

He was angry, enraged even. This was the man who had ruined everything Garrus had built, gotten everyone he cared about on Omega killed, and Shepard wanted to save _him_? He should have known. She was too kind for this, too warmhearted. Sure, she'd killed people, but revenge? That was a whole new ballpark.

"Damn it, Shepard, if he moves, I'm taking the shot!"

Sidonis attempted to leave, huffing at Shepard in her desperate attempts to save him, but she grabbed him by the shoulder, spinning him back around towards her.

"I'm the only thing standing between you and a hole in the head." Her voice is quiet, barely a hiss at the Turian in front of her, and Garrus was growing impatient.

Sidonis was a coward, a man who deserved nothing less than the worst—but Shepard was assuring Garrus over and over that this _was_ the worst. That any pain Garrus could cause him was better than the life Sidonis had now, and killing him was nothing but the easy way out.

He huffed, finally, letting his rifle clatter against the metal beneath him as it hit the floor. Garrus felt, above all else, unbelievably defeated.

She assured him, leaning against the speeder they'd arrived in, that this was the best choice he could've made. Garrus was quiet in his words, and not the kind of quiet they shared when they talked late into the night—it was one of cowardice, one of frustration.

"It's so much easier to see the world in black and white." His head is hung low, focusing on the passing shadows that cross his feet. "Gray... I don't know what to do with gray."

Shepard was silent, the smallest of gasps escaping her—the leftover adrenaline steadying her hands but leaving her breaths unsteady. She reached out to him, offering her hand to join his own. Her thumb ran circles to the top of his wrist—a melodic motion that seemed to capture his thoughts for the time being.

"You've got to go with your instincts," her voice blended with the sounds of the citadel in a manner that left him breathless, every part of him still focused on the rhythm of her fingers.

"My instincts are what got me into this mess." He nearly pulled his hand away in a final act of uncertainty, but much to his own surprise, he didn’t, he couldn’t.

Instead, she smiled at him, not quite letting it reach her eyes, but sweet enough that it left his chest warm.

"Don't be too hard on yourself, Garrus, that's what I'm here for."

Things changed again after that, but not in the way either of them would have ever expected.

Shepard is softer with Garrus, but never like she's walking on eggshells around him. She stands closer, laughs more, and leaving the Main Battery always ends with him forcing her to her cabin, insisting that no one on the ship needs rest more than her.

It's endearing, it's soft, it's lovely.

He isn't quite sure what he's done to deserve it, but he decided that he wasn't going to complain, _God,_ he wasn't going to complain.

He jokes one night, in a strange gesture of _what if_ , but he never expected her to respond.

"A human and a Turian? What a match that would be." She's leaned against the side of a console, the side of _his_ console. She'd been sputtering around the controls for the last hour as he attempted to show her the progress he had made (half because it was important to the ship and half for his own little sense of validation).

"Are you saying it wouldn't work?" He freezes.

"Are you saying it _would_?"

"Well, I'm not throwing out the idea."

Garrus is stunned, absolutely dumbfounded. His fingers trip over the controls and the orange hue beneath him begins to settle, fizzling out of the room.

"What?" Her brows are raised as she crosses her arms over her chest.

"I just didn't expect you to be an alien kind of girl." She scoffs, shoving him with her elbow.

"Don't get too ahead of yourself over there," she hums. 

"Woah woah woah, _you're_ the one making implications." He raises a hand in the air, metaphorically pushing her back.

She snorts before swatting it away.

"That's it, I'm going to bed." She turns to walk away, but he snatches hold of her wrist, leaving her to stare at him in confusion.

"Wait—" He stumbles over the words for a moment before they slip from his mouth. "Do you really think—"

"I do," she answers, not bothering to let him finish. "Why not?"

  
  


He was in love with her.

He'd never say it. Not aloud, Not to anyone else. It was hard enough for him to say it in his own head for God’s sake. But he wasn't sure how he could deny it anymore. How he could ignore it.

He'd found a place within her that he didn't have anywhere else. She became his support, his foundation, his _home._ And he was afraid to lose it. 

His fear only grew as the war heightened. He'd been on the ground missions, he'd seen the battlefield, but every day seemed to grow closer to the collectors—to their inevitable battle.

He was there when she learned of the Collector ship, of the way to end it all, and he was _terrified._

"We can finish this." Her voice is steady, safe. If she was scared of the outcome in front of them, she wasn't showing it.

Her fingers trace the war map, adding lines of possible entries with her motions. Every point seems more dangerous than the last. He'd known from the start that this was a suicide mission, but getting here, _seeing it_? The whole thing seems a little too surreal.

"Are there any safer routes?" Shepard looks up at him and the hope is beginning to drain from her features.

"No," she replied grimly. "If we wanna do this, everyone's going to have to make sacrifices.

A month ago he would've nodded, six he would've verbally agreed. But now, he has something to live for, _something to lose._

"You're not gonna chicken out, Vakarian _,_ are you?" He laughs, though the noise is more of a dying wheeze than anything else.

"Never," he replies, resting a hand on her shoulder.

He comes up to her cabin the night before the mission.

She's on her couch, legs tucked under her, datapad in her lap. She'd been going over the plans again and again, but he can see it now. Alone in her cabin, awaiting the end—she was terrified.

He had to give it to her, she held up a tough front. He never would’ve guessed it when she was in front of everyone else. Shepard seemed to save her fear for the times she could sit in it—live in it.

"Shepard?" Her eyes flutter up from the datapad and she takes the opportunity to slide it off of her lap, leaving the orange glow of mission statements to spill across the coffee table. "I'm sorry to intrude, I just thought our last night alive should be spent somewhere other than the Battery." 

She chuckles, patting the spot next to her on the couch. 

"You seem hopeful, Garrus." 

"Honestly? I am." She raises a brow at him. "The Collectors killed you once and all it did was piss you off. I can't imagine they'll stop you this time."

Garrus sits down next to her just in time for her to swat him in the chest, rolling her eyes in the process. 

"Yeah, but I don't think Cerberus will be willing to try this twice."

She looks down at her hands, twirling her fingers around one another. Garrus catches one, settling the movement between them. 

"They won’t have to." He stares at her as she sighs, a breath sputtering out of the corner of her lips. "You're gonna live through this— _we're_ gonna live through, Shepard. I promise." 

In a sudden motion, she cranes her neck, leaning her forehead against his. Her skin is warm—warm enough that a wave of heat seems to swallow him (though if he were to guess, his own nerves probably played a part in that too). 

They sit there for a moment—lingering, quiet. Even with their eyes closed, Garrus can feel the stress within her as it begins to dissipate. Her hands tremble in his and every breath that slips from her lungs grows steadier than the last. 

They would live through this, he swore to it. And for once, he was right. 

For the entirety of the suicide mission, Shepard was convinced she was going to die. This isn't to be mistaken for recklessness—but rather a worry that she'd played God once before and maybe her luck had finally run out. 

In the moments where the gunfire became too loud or the husks seemed to be multiplying by the dozen, she turned to Garrus. Her glances were often quick, some too much so to even notice, but when he did he'd give her a nod. A small act no doubt, but one that reassured her nevertheless. 

But she made it. _They_ made it. Just as Garrus had promised—just as she had hoped. And yet, all of a sudden, returning back to the SR-2 was a challenge. Though she’d grown accustomed to it over the last few months, Cerberus’ betrayal made it feel the way it did when she was first resurrected. 

Everything was Cerberus. Every inch of hardware, every dinner plate in the mess hall, hell, every pillow in her cabin. She knew as soon as the war ended that she wouldn’t be able to live like this, at least not rightfully. 

“I’m turning myself in.” Garrus looms above her, directing her console between different screens. 

“To the Alliance?” She nods in reply, only glancing at him for half a second before returning her gaze to his hands. 

Garrus is quiet, leaving a silence—one not nearly as welcoming as they were used to, to flood the room. 

“Nothing? No ‘ _Shepard please don’t go’_ no ‘ _how could you do this to us’_?” Garrus shakes his head, laughing along breathlessly. 

“I know I can’t expect you to stay here. I’m worried, _terrified_ actually, but not surprised.” The sides of her mouth seem to fall as she turns around to face him—his gaze still fixated on the console. 

“You belong in the Alliance, Shepard. It’s your home.” 

“But so is the Normandy.” 

“And this, this is your Normandy?” Shepard’s hands freeze as they hover over the keys and Garrus’ are quick to follow. 

“No, no it isn’t.”

Admitting it hurt. She wasn’t quite sure _why_ it did, but the swallowing feeling of defeat didn’t seem to care. Maybe it was because it was Cerberus to give her back what no one else could. Maybe it was the stinging of saying goodbye. 

“You need to go home, Shepard.” 

“I know,” she murmurs. 

Suddenly, without a thought, she’s turning to face him. Her hand reaches up to the side of his cheek, capturing the middle of his scar, and he leans into her touch. They linger—like they did after Sidonis, and in her cabin the night before the mission, and she feels the pit in her stomach begin to grow. 

Why does this feel like the end? Why does _this_ feel like goodbye? 

She doesn’t see him again before she goes to Earth. She blames the rush of the Normandy hitting the Citadel, the rush of gathering her things, the rush of avoiding goodbye—but truthfully, Shepard simply had nothing to say. 

Okay, maybe that wasn’t entirely true. There were plenty of things to say, plenty to admit, but none of them were suited for goodbye. 

She hopes that perhaps one day she’ll get to say them. That one day something will bring them back together and every unspoken word and gentle touch and silent home formed between them will finally come together in what she always wanted it to be. What she always needed it to be. 

But for now, while approaching the council and leaving for a planet she’d been fixed to call home, Shepard is left with that hope and _only_ that hope. 


End file.
